by Lily Maxton
Robert decided not to think too much about whether Cameron stripped when he did this. Though it was difficult when they were so close to each other. He shifted, trying to move a little farther away, and inadvertently pressed his shoulder against Cameron’s upper arm. He stilled, that one point of contact blazing through him like fire, and then, once a few seconds had ticked by and he remained frozen, he didn’t know if it would draw more attention to pull away or to stay.
But Cameron spoke, distracting him. “Maybe you’re the glue.”
“What?” he asked.
“Ye said your brother was the glue, but he was gone for some time, wasn’t he? And you were there, instead. Maybe you’re the glue.”
“I…” The feeling flooding his chest was swift and heavy. A sweet ache. He didn’t know if it was true, but it was nice of Cameron to say. “I thought you weren’t kind.”
“I’m not.”
“You are not unkind.”
Ian snorted, a little huff of air, and Robert found himself smiling.
Ian moved away, then, taking off his coat and rolling up his shirtsleeves. Robert missed the feeling of the other man’s arm pressed against him. He looked over, studying Cameron’s hands, wide and rough, strong fingers dusted with copper hair, before he glanced at his sinewy forearms.
He had scars on his hands and arms—not a lot, but enough for Robert to notice. Some were thin and faint, some pale crescents.
“What are those from?” he said, nodding toward the scars.
Ian shrugged. “Working outdoors, mostly. Just cuts and scrapes.” He pointed at a crescent-shaped mark on his arm. “This is the one I remember most—a sheep bit me.”
“A sheep?”
“Aye.”
“A stupid, gentle sheep? How did you manage that?”
“Sheep are jealous of one another. I was trying to help one that had hurt its leg, and another sheep went after it. But I was in the middle. It accidentally bit me instead.”
Robert couldn’t help but laugh. “So two sheep were fighting over you, more or less?”
“Quiet, Townsend,” he said, but his mouth twitched as he said it.
“I can’t beat you in number, but I do have this, which might win for severity.” Robert leaned forward, pushing back his hair on the right side to reveal a slash of a scar near his hairline. “This is the pall mall scar. It’s a vicious sport.”
“I’ve never seen it played.”
“You hit a ball through a wicket with a mallet.”
Cameron frowned. “That doesn’t sound vicious.”
“You’ve never played against my brother. He’s the most competitive person I’ve ever met. Except perhaps for Annabel. He struck the ball with so much force that he uncovered a particularly sharp rock buried in the ground, which then tried to bury itself in my head. It hurt like the devil.
“I have another scar from Theo, actually.” Robert shoved his sleeve up to reveal a thin line along his upper arm. “We found some fencing equipment and proceeded to use it without any of the proper safety precautions.”
“Hmm,” Ian said. “And you’re sure these were accidents?”
Robert grinned. “For the most part.”
He was about to roll his sleeve back down when Ian touched him, softly, his rough finger tracing the thin, spidery scar, and everything in Robert stilled.
He realized how close they were to each other. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss.
Ian’s hand fell, but his gaze flickered to Robert’s lips, almost imperceptibly. Robert was close enough to see it. The heat he felt in that moment was so strong, so incredibly unexpected, that he didn’t know what to do with it. He knew what he’d told himself, but at the moment, none of those things seemed like a better option than simply leaning forward and finding out what Ian Cameron tasted like, instead of lying awake stroking his cock while he imagined it.
Cameron was looking down at Robert’s hand now, where it rested next to his on the stone floor.
Robert leaned forward slightly and opened his mouth; he didn’t know what he was going to say, but he never had a chance to find out.
“Are you a writer?” Ian demanded.
Robert drew back, desire falling away in a cold flash of reality.
Had he imagined that look? No, he didn’t think he had. And he certainly hadn’t imagined the touch. But it was possible, spurred on by his daydreams and fantasies, he’d imagined what was behind them.
“Why?”
“I just put it together. The ink stains and calluses. The horrible state of your desk.” Ian sounded terse, as though he should have thought of it sooner.
Robert felt cold. Or rather, his arm felt cold in the spot where Ian’s fingers had brushed him. Now, instead of heat and contact, there was only empty space.
“I am,” he said. There was no use lying about it; Cameron sounded pretty certain.
“And ye haven’t told anyone?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“What I write…it’s…not the most revered subject.”
“Gothic novels? You said that was what you like to read.”
Robert was startled that he’d remembered such an insignificant fact. Sometimes he worried that he rambled when he was with Cameron, because the other man was quieter, and Robert tended to talk to fill silences. He’d imagined half the things he said fell on deaf ears. He was grateful that he was wrong. “In a way.”
Ian studied his face. “Constable Whitley,” he said slowly. “It all makes sense.”
“That’s…well…don’t tell anyone,” he finally stammered. Of all the people to find out—it had to be Ian Cameron.
“Why not?”
“Because I started writing it simply for myself, and I didn’t expect a publisher to buy it. Theo and Eleanor…they’re not…they’re not very good with whimsy. I don’t know if they’d like it at all.”
“And ye care about their opinion that much? That you’d deceive them?”
“No.” “Deceive” was such an ugly word. It was more of a lie by omission. “I’ll tell them…I know I should…but when I didn’t tell them right away, it became more difficult as more time passed. But I will.”
He would. But he couldn’t do it now, anyway—Theo wasn’t here, and neither was Eleanor, and he thought that was something that would probably be best told in person instead of in a postscript in a letter. He could just imagine it:
By the way, I’m the author of The Adventures of Constable Whitley. You know…that gothic/adventure/romance book that sold well that other authors hate?
Ian didn’t seem to understand, which was fine. Robert didn’t understand it fully himself.
“Is that why you wake up so late?” Ian looked disgruntled.
“Usually. I tend to write at night.”
Cameron made a noise in his throat that Robert couldn’t decipher. But it didn’t exactly sound pleased.
“You’re working on a second one?” Ian asked.
“Yes. The publisher wants a whole series because the first has been so successful.”
If anything, Ian’s frown deepened. Robert felt like he’d missed something. “So you would say that writing is your…profession?”
Why did he say “profession” as though he might choke on the word?
“Well, yes. I spend several hours a day on it, usually. My aunt and uncle tried to push me toward being a lawyer or a barrister, since Theo already had a military career, but I could never find much enthusiasm for the topic. And the clergy sounded even more stifling. For a while, I didn’t have to think about it, because my brother returned and he needed us…but writing always was the thing I liked the most.”
“I thought ye said ye didn’t have any special talents.”
Another thing he remembered. Perhaps Cameron was more focused on their conversations than Robert gave him credit for, was as observant of Robert as Robert was of him. A prickle of heat at the knowledge crept along his spine.
“Not everyone would consider writ
ing a special talent.”
Another low snort. Ian did this more than he smiled or laughed, and Robert was becoming more versed in the sounds—low and derisive, abrupt and amused, soft and almost chiding.
“Worthington would probably use my book for kindling,” he pointed out.
“Worthington is an ass,” Ian said with so much cool disdain that Robert laughed.
“I wasn’t aware it was such an obvious fact.”
“It is,” Ian said and the prickle of warmth turned to a full-fledged blaze.
He wanted to say something else, to keep this easiness between them, when he heard a sound from outside the storage room. A voice.
“Robert? Mr. Cameron?”
It was Georgina. He suddenly remembered where he was. He didn’t think it was possible, but for a moment he’d forgotten.
“George!” He pushed to his feet. “We’re in here.”
“Are you trapped?”
“The door is stuck.”
“Oh, I should have told you…Catriona mentioned she was having trouble with this door. You have to lift as you push.”
Lift? It couldn’t be that easy, could it?
Robert braced one hand on the old wood and gripped a deep groove with the other. This door must have been here since this room was a prison—there were no knobs or handles on this side of it. He lifted and pushed. The door swung open as though it had never been stuck at all.
Robert felt his face heat. If that didn’t make him look like an idiot, he didn’t know what would.
“Are you all right?” Georgina asked them as they walked out, blinking, into a corridor with a small amount of outside light drifting in and a ceiling that didn’t feel like it was a second away from crushing them.
He nodded.
She peered at him. “Did you find anything?”
“No.”
“It was lucky I came to look for you so quickly,” Georgina was saying as they walked toward the spiral stairway. “You might have been down there for hours.”
It was lucky.
But Robert, in spite of how he’d felt at first, had actually begun to enjoy those private moments with Ian Cameron, regardless of where they were. He couldn’t help but wish she’d taken just a little more time.
Chapter Eleven
Focus wasn’t coming easily to Robert. As he jabbed the cue stick forward, his mind turned to Ian Cameron. Cameron had made use of the good weather after Georgina had rescued him from the dungeon, and Robert had seen him return to the castle with his shirtsleeves pushed back to his elbows and ash streaking his hands.
He must have gone to his cottage to see what he could salvage. Maybe he’d started cleaning it out and repairing it.
It was a reminder that it wouldn’t be long before Cameron returned to his home and not long before Theo returned, either. And then there would be no reason for Robert to speak to the other man, someone he should only know as his brother’s employee. He would barely see him at all.
No more nights under the stars. Or surprising conversations. Or hiding together underneath beds while stifling laughter.
It would all be gone, as if it was never there in the first place.
A sharp pain splintered his chest, and he missed his next shot.
“Did you miss on purpose?” Worthington asked. “Don’t go easy on the boy—he’ll never get better.”
Hale, who was in the process of lining up his own shot, flinched.
Robert stifled a sigh. He’d invited Hale to a friendly game of billiards to make up for the slight the night before, but Worthington insisted on hovering around them, criticizing. Robert truly didn’t understand why Worthington was so critical of his nephew.
“I assure you, I didn’t miss on purpose.”
Worthington looked skeptical.
Miss Worthington, who’d come over to watch, met Robert’s gaze, and her mouth curved in a sympathetic smile.
“No one makes every shot,” she said.
“Though you make more than most, Miss Worthington,” Robert said.
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
Robert was glad that he could still make someone enjoy themselves. The tension Mr. Worthington brought to the gathering was oppressive.
Hale, who at this point was even paler than usual and had lost all self-confidence, missed a fairly easy shot in a fairly spectacular way—the white cue ball actually went airborne for a moment, nearly flying off the table entirely.
Worthington shook his head.
Robert glanced to the other side of the room, where Ian stood with Miss Hale, Mrs. Worthington, Georgina, and Frances. Ian had taken dinner alone and attempted to skip the socializing afterward, but Miss Hale hadn’t wanted to do without his company, using the excuse that there was an entirely unbalanced number of young women to men without him.
So he’d been wrangled up like livestock and was now the reluctant third unmarried male in their group of six.
As if he felt Robert watching him, Ian looked his way, caught his eyes with an impenetrable expression, and then looked back toward Georgina, who was speaking.
Robert wished suddenly that he was over there, instead of here playing billiards.
“I’m sorry,” Hale said, putting the cue stick down. “I’m not feeling well.”
Worthington picked up the stick almost immediately. “Shall I show you a real game, Townsend?”
“I might need a break myself,” he said.
Miss Worthington agreed to play with her father, and while they were occupied, Robert followed Mr. Hale over to the bookshelf. The younger man was staring at the bindings as though they fascinated him.
Robert, who didn’t like to see anyone in distress, thought about what to say to make him feel better. “It’s only a game, and you have the skill to get better. You simply lack confidence in yourself.”
Hale paused with his fingers touching one of the red leather bindings. “Confidence?” he said bitterly. “And where do I find such a thing? Under a rock? Hidden on a shelf?”
Robert blinked. Hale was a little…intense. He hadn’t thought such a thing possible, but maybe Hale had been reading too much poetry.
“Erm…inside yourself, I presume?”
“I’ve tried. There is nothing there.”
“Your uncle is unnecessarily harsh to you, but that doesn’t mean the problem is you. It could just as easily be him.”
Hale turned his sorrowful, dark eyes toward Robert. “You’re confident. How do you do it?”
This almost made Robert laugh. He wasn’t confident. He was just as insecure and anxious as anyone, maybe more so, but he’d learned to hide it behind smiles and jests and friendliness. He’d carved a place for himself, through force of will, because he hadn’t been sure if a place would open on its own.
“You fake it. It doesn’t matter if you believe it as long as everyone else does.”
Hale studied him. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
This boy was hopeless. Which meant Robert couldn’t do anything but try to help him. Maybe Ian was right about Robert. Maybe this was some kind of addiction. “Surely you have good points. Tell me some of them.”
“I…” He faltered.
“You’re well-read, aren’t you?” Robert nudged.
“I suppose.”
“That’s something. What else?”
“I…am not…horrible…at fencing.”
“There!” Robert said. “Well-read and good at fencing. You’re looking better by the moment. What else?”
He pursed his lips as he thought. “Nothing.”
“That’s all right. Two things is more than enough.”
“I suppose…” he began, and then stopped.
Robert nodded encouragingly.
“I have a certain acute depth of feeling that perhaps not everyone has.”
That sounded a bit unpleasant to Robert, but he kept nodding. “Quite. Those are all more important than billiards.”
Hale’s gaze drifted to wh
ere Worthington and his daughter played. “Still, I wish I was a little better.”
“I’ll give you some tips,” Robert said. “After they’re done. I can ask my sister to keep Mr. Worthington occupied with cards. How does that sound?”
Hale looked uncertain, but he finally nodded. “All right.”
It wasn’t long before they had an audience of three—Miss Hale, Ian, and Miss Worthington. Georgina was playing cards with the elder members of the party. She caught his gaze from the round table across the room, mouthed quadrille, and then mimicked shooting herself in the temple. She hated quadrille, but unfortunately, everyone over the age of forty was quite taken with the game.
Robert smiled and turned his attention back to Mr. Hale.
“Go for the easier shot first,” Robert said as Hale stepped forward, immediately eyeing the more difficult shot. “Give yourself time to warm up.”
He nodded and leaned forward. He seemed slightly more relaxed without Mr. Worthington’s scathing commentary, but he did still have an audience. His eyes flickered to them—Miss Hale was saying something to Ian, but Miss Worthington smiled encouragingly.
Hale’s grip tightened on the cue stick, face paling. He pulled his elbow back jerkily—
“Wait,” Robert said. The other man froze in place. “Just breathe for a moment. Line up your shot.”
Hale nodded.
“If you hit here”—Robert pointed to a spot on the ball—“the ball will go this way.” He pointed to another spot. “Here, it will go this way. Why don’t you take a few trial shots just to get a feel for it?”
Robert moved closer to the other guests, where he could get a better view of Hale’s progress. But he found himself distracted as he leaned against the cue stick. As always, his eyes went to Ian Cameron. “I could teach you, too,” he murmured.
Cameron had already turned him down once before. He was probably an idiot to ask again. He was probably an idiot to want to be closer to him in the first place—but want he did. He wanted the easiness between them when they were alone and forgot about their respective positions. He wanted no reminder of class differences, no reminder of expectations—things were natural between them when they didn’t let the outside world seep in.
Ian did not look impressed. “What would be the point of me learning billiards?”
